


A Makeshift Home

by ninthcompanion



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Found Families, Found Family, M/M, Other, The Gang Adopts An Assassin, naoiseru mostly implied not direct but youll see the Agenda im sure, rated T for mentions of violence but nothing beyond that, scathy is only there bbriefly dont be misled i am sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 07:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninthcompanion/pseuds/ninthcompanion
Summary: Naoise inspects all sides of the marshmallow with a thoughtful hum. He touches a hand to his chin, holding the twig aloft so the treat is illuminated by the golden harvest moon. “This is a beautiful marshmallow, Jamil. Be proud of your work… and most importantly, please do taste it.”





	1. Little Games

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @KaddiCrescent on twitter as part of GBF Valentine's Exchange 2019! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

“Hark, villain! In the name of the king, your crusade ends here!”

Brandishing a curtain rod, Naoise cackles darkly as he can muster. (It's more squeaking than menacing, really.) He and his Prince circle each other five feet apart, stumbling here and there on little feet unpracticed in the ways of war. It’s a game cobbled together from watching silver armor glint in the dawn on the training grounds, all built from shards of cracked mirrors laying at the feet of their fathers. 

“Foolish knight! You cannot hide from me! I’m the assassin… uhm,” he glances about the master bedroom. There's got to be something. Silken sheets of blue and white, tapestries towering around the bed, curtains shrouding the mattress, silver veils of morning dew. Soft lights, soft sheets — aha! “I'm the wanted criminal assassin… Velvet Knife!”

Prince Seruel’s stance falters. His face scrunches up to hide laughter. “What can a velvet knife do to me, O Wanted Criminal? Only metal knives will work!”

“I-it’s my name because, uhm… oh! When I stab my victims, I make no sound! Just as velvet is soft enough to cover up sounds, so too shall I undo your kingdom without a trace!”

“How dare you?! Have at thee, Velvet Knight!”

“I’m not the knight, my Prince,” Naoise whispers, cupping one hand around his mouth. “You’re the knight, and I’m the assassin.”

“Irrelevant!”

Giggles dance in the afternoon air rustling through the curtains; autumn sunbeams cradle the two boys as they play their tiny game of daggers. Flimsy curtain rod blades clash in mimicked strokes, clanging — Seruel parries Naoise’s attacks and pushes him backward step by step. As he’s backed into the corner and bumps the wall behind him, Naoise darts to the left and snatches up a loose slipper, wielding it as his fluffy shield. “My defense is impeneregnable!” Impenetrable? Impregnable? No, no, certainly impeneregnable. 

“Not for long!”

Seruel dashes across the room and clambers onto the king’s bed. He hops up and down and declares his position. “Surrender now, Velvet Knight-  _ Knife! _ I will defend my father and his house at all costs. Plus, the higher ground is mine!”

“My Prince, stop! You’re going to get in trouble!”

Seruel smirks. “Then do you admit defeat?”

“No,” he puffs out his cheeks. “That’s not what I said! I just don’t want you to get scolded!”

“If I stop your crimes here, there will be no scolding! Kneel, assassin, and cease your wicked ways.”

A breeze passes through the battleground. The curtains raise and flutter like a white flag, glittering in the sunlight settling over the hills beyond. Naoise’s eyes are drawn to the green and the glow, then back to his Prince. He smiles and lets the slipper and curtain rod slip from his grasp. 

“With this,” he kneels. “I admit I committed many crimes, and I am at the mercy of your blade. If you spare my life, Prince Seruel, I will forever seek the righteous path from now on- huh?”

There’s a light tap at his left shoulder. Naoise looks up with wide eyes and sees Seruel there, tapping him with the curtain rod he discarded. “Your skills are not suited for the dungeon, Velvet Knife… you're hereby pardoned by the Kingdom of Irestill, and shall serve your sentence as my loyal knight. Never shall you leave my side. Do you accept your new path?”

Can he? Naoise blinks, letting his sentence wash over him. Could he truly stay by his Prince's side? If he wishes it then yes, he must. That is the role of a knight- well, an assassin-turned-knight. He wavers just slightly as he reaches to take his Prince's hand, and plants a kiss on the back. Seruel giggles.

Behind them, the sunset crests their little oath incarnadine. 

“I promise.”


	2. Summer

Jamil huddles up close to the beach bonfire, watching the sparks as they mingle with the stars. The wood crackles, but he pays it no mind. His hands draw closer to the open flames.

“Pardon me, Jamil. Might I join you by the fire?”

“Hm?” His dark eyes flare in the smoky glow of the flames. Naoise glimpses his hand twitch toward the dagger at his side. 

“Ah — forgive me, I had not intended to startle you,” he bows his head a slight. Holding up both hands might be a preferable gesture, but they are currently occupied with two eals on skewers. “It's dark. I should have been more considerate in my approach.”

“N-no, it's okay. You can stay, Sir.”

Dusky ashes float on the ocean breeze. Across the horizon lies the quiet the sea, waves lapping gently at the sand, asking for permission to drift ashore. Naoise looks out upon the beach as he sits across from Jamil. The boy, too, betrays nothing in his expression. He stares into the fire; Naoise clenches, debating whether or not to advise he pull his hands away. They're much too close, and he'll be burned if-

“Are you cooking the eal?” Brown eyes peek curiously through the smoke. “Isn't a grill better for that?”

“Er… well, the shack is just closing. I wouldn't want to disturb the process. And I admit, there is something nostalgic about roasting food over a fire.” Naoise's smile and cascading curls are cast in luminous gold. “When we were young, my companions and I often ran off into the woods during our autumn hunts. We would try to cook anything we found — er, if I may, I cannot help but notice your hands are awfully close to the fire. Please, don't cook them by mistake.”

“Oh. Are they?” Jamil pulls his palms away, looking at them. They're a bit red, a bit dry. “I hadn't noticed. I'm used to it, I think. Building a tolerance for fire was part of my training.”

Right. Naoise's expression softens; he has heard tell of Jamil's upbringing during his time aboard the Grandcypher. An assassin for a forgotten clan, a family forsaken and scattered like ashes across time. The boy sitting before him is a living memory of his people, carrying the whispered burdens of those he lost — the burden of blood in his veins and on his hands.

Shadows of assassins who attempted the lives of the royal family ghost through Naoise's mind. They fall and clatter to the ground, unmoving. What is a knight, if not an assassin granted permission to kill at the behest of his kingdom?

His spear feels a little heavier against his back.

“Would you care for some, Sir Jamil?”

“Hm?”

“Some eal, I mean. I brought a bit too much, I'm afraid. Would you like one of these skewers?”

“If… if you're sure.” Jamil leans forward a bit, and his eyes brighten. “Is that alright?”

“Of course.” 

Naoise rises and moves to sit beside him, instead. He hands him a skewer, and they each hold their snacks over the glow of the makeshift oven. He smiles, watching the stripped meat begin to crisp. Jamil is mindful of his meal's coloration, turning it whenever he sees fit.

“You're quite good at this, Sir Jamil… better than me, to be certain.”

“Just Jamil is fine,” he smiles faintly, holding back a tiny laugh. “You're quite formal.”

“My apologies. I mean only to offer my respect, not to patronize.”

“It's okay.” He nods. “But what was that story you were telling, Naoise? You didn't finish.”

“Oh,” he blinks, glancing at Jamil. “About the hunt?”

“Yes. It... it sounded fun. My family took me hunting in the deserts of Mephorash, but I've only visited the forest a few times since joining our crew. What game did you hunt, there? Are there scorpions? How many were in your company?”

“No, there are no scorpions in the woods of Irestill. We have quite a few rabbits, however… and bears. Skies above, the bears,” Naoise sighs and shakes his head. “Princess Heles scared us half to death, trying to slay a bear on her own. I halted its attack, and it nearly cost me an arm. Had it not been for the court healer that had come along- er, we did have fun, of course. Prince Seruel was fond of stuffing marshmallows from the kitchen into his pockets before we left — we would sit together and roast them, using any sticks we could find at our makeshift campsite. We stayed out for as long as we could, before His Highness and the royal guard found us.”

“You were your own sort of family, then... but what was the purpose? Were the marshmallows poisoned, to test your endurance?”

“What? No, they were simply for pleasure. I did always eat one first just to be safe, but- agh!”

Smoke blows into Naoise's face. His eyes water and he coughs, yanking his charred eal away from the fire. Jamil can't help but snort as he watches this man, this dignified knight of Irestill, waving around an eal on a stick.

“Sorry. I distracted you.”

“I-it's fine, Jamil,” Naoise wheezes. He looks down at his blackened snack and sighs. “I assure you, the fault is my own. Far be it from me to waste good food… I'm sure it's fine.” Peering over, he notices the perfectly-distributed brown on Jamil's food. “Yours looks excellent, however. I'm certain you would be good at roasting a marshmallow, too. It requires a great deal of precision.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Naoise opens his mouth to take a bite of smouldering eal, but pauses. He lowers it a bit and looks at it, pondering. A tiny smile spreads across his face.

“... perhaps you could try, if you'd like?”


	3. Coming Home

“Thank you for taking me along, all of you. It's an honor to train among three skilled fighters.”

“Likewise, Jamil,” Seruel replies. “I am eager to see a disciple of the Urzhuwan clan in action. The honor is ours.”

At this Jamil's posture stiffens, his gaze sharpening. “Understood. I won't disappoint you.”

“Seruel, don't pressure him,” Heles chides, patting Jamil on the head. He looks up in wonder, the gesture foreign to him. “My brother means to say he's happy you’ve chosen to accompany us, Jamil.”

“I don't recall asking you to translate for me, Sister.”

There's a fondness in Naoise's smile as the trio weaves their way through the undergrowth. The forest overhead casts a veil of auburn and gold onto the small company, crooked branches weaving together in autumnal embrace. As they venture deeper into the thicket, the world from whence they came fades farther away. Irestill's harvest season is aglow with memories; this secret kingdom of crunching leaves is theirs to wander, just as it was so many years ago.

“Be careful,” Naoise advises, pointing out the occasional jagged rocks that peek out between the trees. “The terrain is uneven, here. Not to mention the hidden burrows of serpents, bears, rafflesias-”

“There's no need to worry, Jamil. No threat can escape the watchful gaze of the Velvet Knight.”

“The what?”

“Seruel,” Naoise's ears flush, his voice wavering. “It was the Velvet _Knife_ , but please, that is neither here nor there! I believe we agreed not to speak of this.”

“Oh? I'm afraid I don't recall any such agreement.”

“A velvet knife,” Jamil says. “If it could kill, it would do so silently. The ultimate tool of an assassin...”

Seruel barks with laughter, his ears perking up as he fixes Naoise with a teasing smile. “Now I see why you've taken to him so, Naoise. A child after your own heart.”

“If you three are quite finished, I believe we’ve found the spot.”

With a sweeping arm, Heles gestures to a ramshackle pile of stones and sticks amid the trees. Mud, ivy, and gnarled roots creep around the makeshift clearing — it’s little more than a raggedy, abandoned pile of twigs.

Naoise draws a quiet breath. “Even after all this time…”

“Are we to hunt here?” Jamil asks, looking both ways. “I don’t see any monsters. My senses must be inhibited by the overgrowth. But I’m sure if I focus, they will be revealed to me.”

“It’s alright, Jamil.”

Crossing over to his side, Heles pats his shoulder. “Forgive us for the little fib… but we haven’t brought you here to hunt, today. Naoise was quite adamant that you would enjoy roasting marshmallows with us, instead.”

“Oh… really?”

Seruel strides to the pit without hesitation, his indigo cape fluttering on the dusky breeze. “It would seem that nature has shown our childhood playground mercy.” He runs a hand along one of the logs, inhaling the scent of cushiony moss and giving it a few light raps with his knuckles. At last he deems it worthy, and sits. “Jamil, this is where we-”

The log cracks open, and Seruel falls down behind-first into it. Heles covers her mouth and starts curling forward like the ferns at her feet, laughing until she nearly cries. Naoise inhales sharply and practically lunges toward him, kicking up leaves and globs of mud on his heels. “Seruel, are you alright?! Here, take my hand!”

Beside Heles, Jamil’s stoic expression softens. Her laughter spills over to him, and as the rosy glow of sunset peers through the crowning trees above, his tiny smile shines bright.

 

 

—

 

“Your roasting technique is excellent, Jamil.”

“Th-thank you, Sir. You honor me.”

“Hah.” Seruel gestures back toward the fire. “Don’t lose focus, now.”

With a resolute nod, Jamil leans forward and pierces his marshmallow with a laser-focused stare. No trace of brown crispiness will escape his sight. Naoise watches and chuckles softly. “Here, Jamil,” he reaches out and gently adjusts his elbow for him. “Be mindful of your stance — refrain from putting too much stress on your forearm, or you’ll be terribly sore come morning. No treat is worth injuring yourself.”

“Understood!”

Across the firepit on a log of their own, Heles and Seruel sit beside each other. “Naoise is quite good with young people, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Seruel replies. “When they aren’t pulling his hair or their little pranks, anyway. There is no more nurturing man in all of Irestill.”

“Hmm.” Rotating her improvised skewer (a gnarled twig), Heles looks into the fire with a coy smirk. “It sounds as though you’ve given this quite a bit of thought, Brother.”

“And just what are you implying, dearest Sister?”

“Oh, nothing at all. It’s just an observation.”

Seruel turns his gaze back to Naoise as he instructs Jamil on the proper technique. “It takes a special sort of mentor to reach a youth raised into bloodshed.” His ears relax, turning downward just a slight. “One who was raised into it himself, perhaps… one who carries the guilt of a thousand lives, even if it serves little purpose.”

“It’s good for him to repurpose those feelings, isn’t it? Something good can come of them, after all.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ve done it!” Jamil sits staunchly upright, brandishing his marshmallow. “Naoise, sir — if you would evaluate my performance, I would be eternally grateful.”

Naoise inspects all sides of the marshmallow with a thoughtful hum. He touches a hand to his chin, holding the twig aloft so the treat is illuminated by the golden harvest moon. “This is a beautiful marshmallow, Jamil. Be proud of your work… and most importantly, please do taste it.” He extends the stick back to him.

Jamil accepts it readily, drawing the toasty treat closer. In one decisive chomp he vanishes the evidence of his hard work. Starlight pools in his wide eyes. “Ish devishoush… phank you! Phank you sho mush!”

“Now, now, Jamil,” Heles giggles. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, or you might lose your marshmallow.”

Jamil’s cheeks puff out as he nods rapidly. The royals and their trusted knight laugh like a song in the autumn night, huddled close by the warmth of the bonfire. Sparks twirl around them in dance.

From a distance, a pale green light materializes on a branch high in the treetops. A guardian’s loving eyes gaze down upon the happy occasion, watching the smoke roll up into the crystalline skies. Where she touches her chosen perch, a gentle breeze brushes past to caress its leaves.

_I always hoped you would come back here, one day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW... there were a lot of things i wanted to say in this piece, not sure i got all of em. but i hope at least some of the sentiment comes across. 
> 
> thanks for reading, and happy valentine's day!


End file.
